I’ve been asking audiences how much they would have to be paid to be deliberately infected with the malaria parasite. Lots of people just shake their heads and say that no money in the world would be enough. That seems a bit precious. When a group of doctors developing a malaria vaccine offered me a couple of grand I was over the moon.
Two years ago, when I was 25, I was spending my evenings doing stand-up comedy and my daytimes working a few jobs with varying degrees of success. I had been a teacher, a copywriter, a bag-packer in a coffee factory and (for one disastrous shift) a barman. What I really wanted to do was write a show and take it to the Edinburgh Fringe festival, which is still the best place to get noticed as a comedian. The trouble is, all in, it can cost about £9,000 to go there for the month. To raise the money I had two options: 750 hours of overtime at the coffee factory or a paid medical trial. A life sentence or a death sentence. I took my chances with the latter.
The plan was to get accepted for FluCamp, an annual scheme where out-of-work actors and baby-faced English undergrads are rounded up in an inconspicuous medical building in Whitechapel, east London, and given the flu to develop that year’s vaccine. You’re paid £100 for every day you’re ill. Not bad at all.
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Sadly I was rejected from FluCamp because — and this is a brag — my white blood cell count was too high. But they assured me that I was actually in a very healthy condition; so healthy, in fact, that I was eligible for more rigorous trials, one of which was a “malaria camp”. This would involve deliberately contracting the disease and being observed for a few days, until being given treatment and discharged. The trial would help them to understand malaria better as part of the global effort to develop a vaccine. I packed my bags faster than you could say, “What are the risks?”
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There were a few of us enrolled on the trial, which took place in a small medical compound just like a hospital ward. After initial tests, two of us qualified, and it was time to accept our joint first prize: an injection of malaria each. I was told that under no circumstances was I to make a break for it after this moment because, without treatment, I would die. The day rate was the same as the flu, except (unlike FluCamp) I was allowed to leave the compound, since I wasn’t an infection risk. After all, there are very few anopheles mosquitos (the insect that transmits the disease) in the UK — apart from in Kent, surprisingly, from which I was strictly forbidden. This got me out of going to a wedding I didn’t want to attend. Ideal.
I felt great. Every day I went for a few blood tests at the compound then wandered round the corner to Greggs, toasting the fact that I was the healthiest boy in the world. Business as usual. I was told that once my malaria count reached 500 parasites per millitre of blood, I would be given a few tablets, make a full recovery, and be sent on my way a wealthy man.
A count of 500 amounts to a very mild case of the disease; it would be a bit like having a nasty cold. But weirdly, for about a week, my count stayed stubbornly at zero. This isn’t unheard of but, after nine days or so, the scientists had some stern questions for me. Was I secretly sabotaging this experiment so that I could stay on the trial for longer to raise more money for my comedy show? Was I covertly drinking gin and tonic, which contains the antimalarial compound quinine? I wanted to be a good patient, so I racked my brains. Had I accidentally had a gin and tonic? Stranger things have happened.
Then on day 14 suddenly — and I mean over the course of an hour — I started to feel sick. By which I mean really sick. Inconveniently it was in the middle of a really lovely dinner with someone I fancied. Never mind. I phoned the clinic and told them I thought it was happening. In that not unappealing sciencey way, the medics were a little bit excited. They told me to come in. A delirious bus ride later, and still in my date clothes, the clinicians took my bloods and revealed to me (to the best of my feverish recollections), half nervously and half delightedly, that my malaria count was 28,000. “You’ll be fine,” the doctor smiled. “But you’re going to feel pretty awful.”
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Pretty awful was an interesting choice of words; my choice would be the Genghis Khan of fevers. I started having bizarre nightmares that turned into waking hallucinations. Like any good Catholic, mine largely featured being dragged into hell by the devil as punishment for making such a Faustian bargain. The only times I sat up were to take my medication, which I washed down with Coca-Cola, in my hospital bed. I was told off for this but if you’re not allowed gin and tonic, what else even is there? Strangely, the physical pain — these sharp, stabbing feelings in my joints — was somewhat offset by the security of knowing exactly what was wrong with me, and the fact it had been my choice. It’s a peculiar way of experiencing disease.
It was about five days later I was out of my hospital gown and back on the bus, my date clothes lovingly washed by the hospital staff, with a newfound appreciation for life. It would be a few more days until the malaria completely went away, but I was past the worst of it and on top of the world. Where would scientists be, I thought, without underemployed creatives? It’s a question that probably gets asked the right amount. But, to be honest, it was a genuine privilege to play a tiny part in the development of new treatments for a disease that, shockingly, may have killed half of all human beings who have ever lived. Far more importantly, I can only imagine it was the privilege of a lifetime for those scientists to play a significantly larger part in helping me take my stand-up show to the Edinburgh Fringe this year. Of course, it still hasn’t covered the whole cost. Perhaps you’d be kind enough to buy a ticket? Or we could do a different medical trial together?
John Tothill will perform Thank God this Lasts Forever at the Edinburgh Fringe, July 31-August 25, pleasance.co.uk
